


Catching Up

by Cheers



Series: Chinese Boxes [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M, post-TDKR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheers/pseuds/Cheers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One more (the 1001st, I know) version of what happened to Bruce and Selina at the end of the Nolan trilogy between the Gotham Bay blast and the Florentine cafe. Originally posted on ffnet, eventually became the first of a "trilogy" of fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Up

 

Without her mask and her sleek outfit, she is just a young woman picking her way through the rubble, looking tired and fragile and dejected and not at all heroic, and she is grateful for the anonymity. The worst is over, and the shell-shocked, war-ravaged city that has been granted a reprieve but still reeks of tragedy is stirring tentatively back to life. Stranded in Gotham’s chilly wreckage, Selina takes life one breath at a time and wonders since when she has longed for a sense of purpose.

When the ocean blew up, she drove the Batpod back into Wayne Enterprises, leaving it in the garage above the flooded basement, and ran through the debris and billowing dust, desperate to avoid the spotlight, as fast as she could until her lungs gave out, stumbling on until she staggered into the gutted place she had once called home, peeled off the suit, and collapsed on the floor, too broken to move, too numb to cry. The city had been spared thanks to a hero’s sacrifice, but the blast had scorched her from the inside.

How many times have they met? Three, four? Not more than that, as Bruce and Selina. As many again, at best, as their alter egos. Still, here she is, crushed with grief over losing someone she hardly knew. She used to pride herself on having devised the perfect mask, flawlessly convincing in her feigned helplessness and simplicity; by the time she saw that she had met her match, it was too late. She used to relish her cool detachment, surviving by assessing others as threats and making a living by assessing others as opportunities. Of those simple scales, the Batman scored high on one and Bruce Wayne scored high on the other, and she had sold out both, only to discover that the man she had brought to his doom meant more to her than the sum of those two parts. And as if the nagging guilt hadn’t been enough, as if the vision of a hero being broken hadn’t haunted her enough, she has now lost him a second time, when she knows him for who he is, when it _really_ hurts.

How do you go on when you aren’t sure what for? How do you pick up the pieces of a life that suddenly seems empty? Before the war, she found enjoyment in pulling off impossible heists, but even with her flexible morals, she wouldn’t stoop to plundering a battlefield. She could continue her exploits elsewhere, but the thrill of her former life has been rendered petty and pointless by the scale of the tragedy. Her words about looking forward to the storm haunt her now, and she is irrationally angry at a dead hero for reawakening her better, unselfish, caring side when all it does is feed her remorse and make her miss him even more.

She isn’t unselfish or charitable enough to give away her savings – even if she wanted to, there are no banks open in Gotham and her money is in the Caymans – but in the days following the final showdown, she ends up doing what she can to help out. When she approached Jim Gordon asking how she could make herself useful, his immediate reply was urging her to leave – and she knows that he meant it for her own good; but when she insisted, he pointed her to the tasks at hand without further argument, and she gladly took on the simple chores, working shifts as a nurse at a mobile intensive care unit, taking supplies to the elderly who are too frail and scared to venture into the streets as they wait to leave the city.

Gotham is fast becoming a ghost town. In a matter of days now, all the inhabitants will have been moved inland to temporary sites and the city will be left empty for the decontamination teams to deal with the bodies, the residual radiation and the acid rain, the rotting trash and the swarming rats before the construction crews can start repairing the damage and before the citizens can finally reclaim their homes. As the streets grow quieter, the looming question of “what now” is becoming harder to ignore. She is reluctant to leave, as if this charred husk of a city were her last connection to its dead saviour.

There is talk about a mysterious second rider who blew open the barricade blocking the exit through the tunnel. She is glad that no one knows; Gordon and Blake know, but they aren’t talking. It’s all his, the glory and the gratitude, she has no right to it and wants no share of it. If her moment of bravery yielded a modicum of atonement in his eyes for her earlier betrayal, it is enough.

A week later, when even the medical units start packing up and Gordon orders her to leave – “or you’ll be glowing in the dark before you know it” – she gets his blessing to take a Harley from a police impound yard and goes across the river. She has delayed this moment for as long as she could, but once she is gone she won’t be coming back, and she cannot leave without paying her last respects. There is a makeshift shrine downtown, with candles and notes and children’s drawings and paper flowers in the absence of real ones, and they are talking about setting up a Batman statue, but her mourning is for the man, not the symbol.

Alfred is kinder to her than she deserves, all things considered. She is not surprised that he noticed her standing in the graveyard in the dark – his SBS past is known to her by now – but she did not expect the kind reception her visit gets, the quiet commiseration, or the hug, for that matter. Still, she makes her excuses after a few minutes, feeling like an intruder, or worse, an impostor, a duplicitous ally trying to out-mourn a bereaved adoptive father – and unable to endure the sight of the name on the gravestone any longer. Alfred’s parting request to her is for a forwarding address, as cell phones have become a rare commodity in the ravaged city running on generators and he knows that she is planning to erase all traces online; and it finally pushes her to make up her mind. She gives him the name of a guesthouse in New Brunswick, on the coast just north of the border where she once stayed, and a name on the false passport she is planning to use to cross into Canada, saying she will be there for a couple of weeks. With nothing left for her to do in Gotham, she might as well lie low until she is ready to make a proper fresh start. The last thing she does before leaving is powering up her tablet – Gordon’s parting gift – to run the _CleanSlate_. It is fitting that Selina Kyle’s life should officially end in the same city where Bruce Wayne’s had.

***

The ocean isn’t helping. She wanders up and down the rocky windswept beach, telling herself not to look for wreckage. It is completely implausible that she should find any; she is a few hundred miles north of Gotham and even if the craft did not evaporate in the explosion, it most likely sank; but she keeps looking anyway. By the fifth day, she is ready to go just about anywhere that doesn’t have a coast, but she has to wait for her Canadian papers – forgeries again but reputable ones – before she can leave.

When the guesthouse owner finds her to tell her about the arrival of a courier, she is caught between apprehension and puzzlement before she remembers Alfred and his request. She hadn’t given it much thought afterwards, chalking it up to English politeness, a gesture to show that he had no ill feelings toward her; she is bemused when she is left holding a lightweight cardboard box labelled “for Miss Sarah Kane from A. Pennyworth”. As she peels away the layers of padding inside she has an irrational, impending sense of heartbreak; when she sees the familiar flat black velvet box and hears the muffled clink of the beads inside, the finality of it hits her. She has been too shocked, then too busy, and recently too listless to fully face the reality of never seeing Bruce again; but there is no running away from it now, no anaesthetic, no distraction, and she sinks down on the bed and cries in shuddering sobs until exhausted sleep overtakes her.

Three days later, her documents ready, she knows that it is time to plot her next move, but still can’t bring herself to care. As a last resort, she switches on the tablet, calls up a world map, closes her eyes, spins the tablet around for good measure, and sticks her finger at the screen, vaguely wondering what she should do if she hits the middle of the Atlantic. When a wary glance at the screen beneath her fingertip reveals her accidental destination as Hong Kong, she is pleased, even mildly excited by the prospect. A big, vibrant city, thousands of miles away from Gotham. There is the risk that it might remind her of her former home, but if it becomes too hard to deal with, she will have her pick of neighbouring countries to explore.

***

The Gotham echoes are there, in the sleek vertical lines of the skyscrapers, the narrow canyons of the streets below, the glowing night lights, the classy venues, the crowded cheap housing and the humming energy throughout; but the vibe is decidedly Asian, the temperatures warmer, the surrounding sea a deep cornflower blue instead of Gotham’s steely grey – and best of all, the Gotham it reminds her of is the affluent, smug, glossy Gotham of a few years ago, not the savaged battleground she last saw. For a few weeks she loses herself in the crowd, diving into the human swarm in the narrow, cluttered, perpetually shady streets, browsing the markets, wandering about the temples, climbing the hills and strolling along the beaches on nearby Lantau Island, and finds an unexpected thrill when she signs up to a martial arts school and throws herself into gruelling workouts and ends up receiving a mixture of stern reprimands and reluctant admiration for her highly unorthodox but highly effective moves.

Not surprisingly, her fellow students – mostly American and European expats, all male – have taken notice. Within ten days of signing up, she has been invited to three dinners and two drinks, and enjoys a chance to savour the city nightlife and sample its best watering holes. This in turn brings her more acquaintances, so that by the end of the third week, her date tally has more than doubled. She describes herself as a Canadian widow; it works, for the time being, to explain her independent lifestyle, her staunch preference for black clothes, and her indifference to romantic advances. She may be ready to be distracted, even entertained, but has no interest in the men themselves.

Her immediate problem, however, is of a more pedestrian nature; she has no wish to spend all her money, which means the need to look for work. She is beginning to think she may eventually pick up her cat-burglar career, but the prospect of becoming closely acquainted with the inside of a Chinese prison serves as an effective deterrent... for now; she held her own in Blackgate but enough is enough. When one of her new suitors, a suave fortysomething Brazilian, tells her that he would like to discuss a business proposition, she is intrigued enough to want to hear him out. If the proposition turns out to be anything but business, she is perfectly capable of delivering a memorable refusal; then again, he might be worth getting to know. He is almost – _almost_ – tall, dark, and handsome enough.

On the evening of their dinner date, she gives herself a critical eye in the mirror. With her hair impeccably groomed, her makeup barely noticeable, and her simple black shift dress fitting and flattering her figure to perfection, she looks every inch the respectable rich man’s widow… except for the complete lack of jewellery that the station usually brings. After a few minutes’ indecision, she reluctantly opens the safe in the walk-in closet of her suite and reaches for the black velvet box inside, ignoring the tightness in her throat. It’s just for tonight, she tells herself; she won’t have to wear them or even look at them afterwards.

She presses the spring, and two seconds later, the shimmering necklace clatters on the floor, its owner too shaken to care.

Inside the black box is a sheet of cream paper the size of a printed photograph, with an inscription at the top and a gilt-letter company name embossed above a string of numbers at the bottom.

 

_With compliments_

 

WAINWRIGHT SECURITY

(41) 91 5040763

 

But the part that makes her forget to breathe is the signature in the middle that looks a lot more like _Br Wayne_ than anything Wainwright.

***

“Armando? Yes, this is Céline. Something’s come up, I can’t have dinner with you tonight. I apologise. No, I’m fine. Sure, I’ll let you know when I’m free next week. You too. Thank you.”

She barely has the patience to finish the niceties. Even if she does not manage to talk to him tonight, there is no chance in hell she can sit through dinner with anyone else, not with the way her hands are shaking and the silly tears are swimming in her eyes and the profanities are tumbling from her tongue in a giddy litany. “You fucker, you damned sneaky bastard, why couldn’t you just let me know you are alive, for fuck’s sake?” There is no way he could keep track of her, she tries to argue with herself; not when she has changed her name and residence twice and has erased all trace of her former identity. All Alfred – and presumably Bruce – had to go on was her Canadian guesthouse address. She has enough trust in Alfred to think that he honestly believed his master dead when they last met rather than keeping her purposely in the dark, and had faithfully carried out the errand subsequently entrusted to him. But Bruce could still have found her. This is the man who made playthings of military technology and tracked down career criminals for a hobby. Maybe he just wanted to leave her a parting gift. In the end, the only thing to do is make the call. She checks the number against an online directory; Lugano, Switzerland. Seven hours behind; just before lunchtime. You’d better be who I think you are, _Mr Wainwright_ , and you’d better be there.

The girl on the other end is briefly baffled by Selina’s French; it is only when she switches to English and detects the Italian drawl in the response that Selina remembers that Lugano is in the Italian-speaking part. Can she ask who is calling, please? _Selina Kyle_ would be an obvious answer, but obvious answers are boring. “Tell him it’s a client calling about the pearls.”

The girl does not come back on the line; there is no preamble, no warning, when the next word is delivered in the voice she thought she’d never hear again, raw and almost Batman-low. “Selina?”

She has told herself to be calm; good luck with that. It takes her a couple of seconds just to find her voice. “You’re damn lucky you’re halfway around the world from me.” She sounds about as hoarse as he did. “Or you’d be dead for real.” She knows even as she is saying it that her verbal punch makes no sense, but the greater part of her brain is beyond the capacity for rational thought.

“What have I done?” Logical, if predictable; and sounding calmer.

Broke her heart. Left her in mourning for three months. “Nothing.” Talk about embarrassing, girl-in-a-tiff conversation.

“Whatever it is, I’m sorry.” He sounds more taken aback than sorry, but strictly speaking, the apology was uncalled for in the first place. “Where are you?”

“Hong Kong. I thought you’d have figured it out.” She meant it as a taunt, but suspects that she has succeeded only in sounding petulant. Great going, Selina.

“I could have. But I thought I’d ask you instead.”

That soft, husky voice is melting her brain.

“If you’re serious about killing me…” What are you getting at, Bruce? “…I can be there and at your mercy in two days’ time.”

Keep breathing, woman.

 “I’m _dead_ serious. But _I_ can be in Lugano tomorrow.”

“You’re the most obliging assassin I know.” She can practically hear the smile, and feels her own foolish grin growing wider. “Can I repay your troubles with a nice dinner?”

It’ll take more than that, sweetheart. “You can try.”

“I’ll do my best to make it worth your while. Shall we say, 8 pm at the _San Salvatore_?”

“I’ll be there.” She types up the search and crosses her fingers that she can fly to Europe overnight.

***

Zurich greets her with crisp early morning air and a pattern of wispy clouds against pale blue May skies, definitely a change from Hong Kong’s subtropical humidity. She is glad she chose to wear leather; her all-black ensemble of close-fitting trousers and motorcycle jacket over an opaque black silk body stocking might have looked odd at Hong Kong airport and her slinky undergarment, once she had peeled off the leather to sleep overnight, may have attracted a couple of stealthy glances from fellow first class passengers, but it is the perfect outfit for her ride down to Lugano: with a hundred and fifty miles to cover, she has decided that two wheels are a better and faster choice than four. Her minimal wardrobe has also allowed her to travel with only a large handbag containing a dress, heels, the pearls, the tablet, and night vision goggles _just in case_ – thankfully, those did not trigger any security alarms – that fit into the plastic trunk of her rental motorbike once she took out the helmet. It is just before seven; with any luck, she should be at her hotel by mid-morning and should have plenty of time to rest before dinner.

She sees him about half an hour later on the winding highway running along the floor of the deep mountain valley, following her. In theory it could be anyone; still, she doubts there are that many limited-edition Lamborghinis around before breakfast for this particular one to be driven by a stranger. He might no longer be a billionaire, but Bruce surely still likes his toys, and he still likes them _fast_ and _black._ The ghostlike Sesto Elemento may look smaller than the sprawling Aventador, but it is bigger on predatory grace, its oblique shape coalescing from a mass of angular matte surfaces decidedly Tumbler-esque. Only twenty of these ever produced, she recalls, and none of them reportedly road-legal. He must have called in some big favours with the Swiss police to be driving this off a racetrack. She bites down on a wicked smirk as she twists the accelerator grip on her slick silver BMW Gran Turismo, shooting a quarter of a mile ahead of him; sure enough, it only takes seconds for the gorgeous black shadow to overtake her on the empty road.

He stops at a shoulder almost half a mile ahead and lowers the window, looking back at her. Smug bastard; she should drive on and make him catch up again, but she has missed him too much not to stop. They sit there side by side, the visor hiding her eyes, allowing her to drink him in. His face is gaunt behind the sunglasses, but with a fresh tan and longer hair that make him seem younger.

“You’re looking good, for a dead man.”

“I wanted to offer you a ride, but it looks like I’m late.” The not-quite-smile hovering on his well-practiced poker face is driving her crazy. His eyes studying her, now that he has raised the Ray-Bans to rest above his forehead, drive her ten times crazier.

You’re _almost three months_ late, you beast.

“Should have asked where you were landing, but figured you’d take Swiss into Lugano.”

“I wanted to get some fresh air.” And pump some adrenaline to counteract the nerves, but you don’t need to know that. Let’s go on with the pretence of small talk. For now.

“Admit it, you have a thing for powerful bikes.”

As in, well-connected promiscuous playboys? You betcha. “ _You_ have a thing for black Lamborghinis.”

“As I recall, it’s a shared taste.”

His smirk is too obvious for the remark to be a reprimand, and the memory of stealing the Aventador in Gotham from under his nose, before the war, before the heartbreak, back when he was just an oddball billionaire with a limp and a sexy voice, makes her smile in return.

He tips his head at the BMW. “You sure you don’t want to leave it here and join me?”

What, and make it easy for you? “Positive.”

“How about a swap? I take the bike, you take the car? I trust you to bring it back this time.”

Last time she heard, the thing cost a hundred times as much. “You destroy every vehicle you get your hands on. There’s no way _I’m_ trusting you with a rental bike that I’m actually paying for.” She veers off and guns the throttle all the way, leaving him grinning at her parting shot.

The game continues almost all the way to Lugano; every time she gets far enough ahead, it’s only to see the Sesto roaring past. She isn’t feeling reckless enough – for once – to weave across the road to stop him from overtaking her, but gets her revenge when they get close to the city and off the highway and she dives almost immediately into a narrow lane less than three feet across. She can’t see him, but can practically feel him shaking his head at her, and can’t stop laughing the rest of the way to the hotel. No sooner does she get into her room and out of the shower, she drops onto the middle of the sumptuous bed and sleeps like a newborn.

***

Dates with dead superheroes are a stressful business, she thinks sourly as she turns away from the dazzling lakeside vista with its subtle, luminous hues of blue, fresh spring green, and mellow ochre, and leaves the balcony to pace her suite again. She woke up mid-afternoon with something that decidedly felt like a flutter in her chest and has since gone to the spa to soak in the hot tub, taken a brisk walk around downtown Lugano, the city looking sleepy even at the onset of the rush hour, and sat in the luxuriant garden, only to find that the sensation wouldn’t subside. At a quarter to eight, she takes a final look at the mirror – _dèja vu_ all over again, same dress, same demure look as last night, except that this time the radiant pearls grace her neck in all their glory – and walks to the cable railway station less than half a mile away from the former royal residence turned five star boutique hotel that she has chosen to stay at. Shortly before quarter past, just over thirty hours after she stood up her Brazilian date in Hong Kong, she steps onto the terrace of the Ristorante San Salvatore on top of a towering hill, more of a mountain, really, one of a pair flanking Lugano’s lakefront on either side, oblivious to the breathtaking vista two thousand feet below, her breath sufficiently taken by the rather ordinary sight of a man reading a paper at a table across the linen-swathed terrace.

The San Salvatore is a study in understated luxury; monochrome with a predominance of white set off with subtle grey accents, its deceptive simplicity allowing patrons to better appreciate the Michelin-quality food and the view. In keeping with the colour scheme and the understated-luxury vibe, Bruce is dressed in a grey suit and a white silk shirt, once again every inch the suave playboy. She is glad that he did not immediately notice her arrival on the crowded terrace; once she believes herself sufficiently cool and composed, she steps carefully between the tables toward him, only to stop in her tracks again when he puts down the paper, stands up to greet her and looks – no, stares – at her.

She can practically feel herself blush; this dinner date business can get really embarrassing.

She puts on her best mock-innocent smirk, stepping up to the table. “Mr Wainwright, I presume?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “At your service, Miss…?”

“Caille, Céline Caille.”

He chuckles, the tiniest bit, at the name tweak. “French?”

“Canadian.”

“Nice to meet you, _Céline_.” He says it like he is savouring the name, and she struggles to peel her eyes away from his lips. But instead of carrying on the introduction pretence with a handshake, he greets her with twin kisses on the cheeks favoured by European acquaintances. She hopes he either has not noticed her breath hitching, or had a similar reaction himself.

“What’s _your_ name?” she counters when they sit back down.

He gives her another of those not-quite-smiles. ”Brandon. For some reason, a couple of people insist on calling me Bruce.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” She half-smiles back at him.

“Did you find this place all right?” He watches her as she opens the menu, not bothering to pick it up himself.

She isn’t sure if he means locating it or liking it, and goes with a safe _oh yes_ , all too aware of his eyes on her. “Don’t tell me you own it.”

“Not yet. I’m thinking about it. I live about a mile south of here as the crow flies, in a place called Carona, and it is the best dining spot nearby. This way I won’t need to bother booking.”

He sounds serious. Does the man own a printing press? “Last time I knew, you were bankrupt.”

“I suppose you haven’t closely followed the stock market. There was an SEC inquiry; it took less than a month to void the transactions. It was proven beyond doubt that Bane had initiated them and that Daggett, Stryker and Miranda were his accomplices. Besides, I wasn’t as bankrupt as they said.” He doesn’t look smug saying this, mostly serious and inappropriately sexy, but the corner of his mouth still quirks up and somehow she is still annoyed.

She made her pick almost immediately, but still pretends to study the menu. The Lamborghini should have tipped her off, but she’d chalked it up to being a special indulgence. What would a man who can once again have everything – or almost everything – want with a treacherous cat burglar? The thought that she was the one who had called him now makes her uneasy. Was he too busy to seek her out, or was her far-from-flawless record where he was concerned, with her complicity in relieving him of his billions being the least of her offences, bad enough to relegate her in his eyes to little more than a low-ranking name on a long list of dinner-date options?

“Happy to have your billions back?” she ventures once they’ve made their orders.

He gives her a slightly suspicious glance. “They aren’t exactly billions. Most of the money is in the Wayne Foundation, and another big chunk has been reinvested into the Applied Sciences Division at Wayne Enterprises to get the company back on track. After the Defense Department saw the Tumblers in action in Gotham, they ordered ten thousand of them, and two dozen of Bat aircraft, not to mention smaller stuff. At this rate the company will make enough profits in the next three years to recover the last three years’ losses twice over. Lucius is going crazy dealing with all that, now that he’s back to CEO. But I am just an ordinary, garden-variety Swiss millionaire.”

Damn him and his millions. “With an ordinary, garden-variety limited edition Lamborghini.”

He has the insolence to look pleased. “I knew you’d like it.”

“Maybe. Is it a coincidence that you picked the one model that looks like the Tumbler?”

He seems strangely thrown by the rather obvious question, at once pleased and dismayed. “Maybe.”

“How do you manage to drive it on an open road?” It is a safer line of questioning, she figures.

“Wainwright Security won a tender for speed cameras for the Swiss traffic police. I offered them top-of-the range laser cameras for a pittance, on one condition: there would be a vehicle on the road periodically testing camera performance.”

“Let me guess. A Sesto Elemento.”

He nods, the picture of smugness. “And a motorbike. The cameras need to be tested for a smaller plate and a narrower vehicle profile. Plus, I promised them to help chase down repeat offenders.”

“That’s bribery, Mr Wainwright.” She tries her best sarcastic tone on him.

Seemingly to no effect, as he looks perfectly innocent and unashamed. “That’s business, Miss Caille. It was awarded through full-disclosure public procedure.”

“And you turned around this wonderful deal in the space of three months?”

He looks at her in puzzlement for a second before shaking his head.

“It’s been in place for at least half a year, and was in the works for months before that. The bureaucrats here are really ridiculously slow, despite being Swiss.”

It does not add up. “How long have you had this company?”

“A few years. I decided to invest money here for a second citizenship before I came back to Gotham nine years ago, so I bought an outfit called Integrated Alarm Systems. The shares weren’t held by Wayne Enterprises, but by me personally through a number of fronts, in the Wainwright name. Wayne Enterprises fulfilled occasional European orders for them as subcontractor, through another front that Lucius and I had set up, but Theo, the general manager, never met me. Imagine his surprise when Mr Wainwright shows up in person and wants to have a hand in running what he’d come to consider his company. He got over it when he saw I wasn’t as useless as he’d expected.” There’s the smug-boy look again.

“What does your company do, besides breaking speed records?” she asks when they are past the starters.

“Different things. Mostly security systems - burglar alarms, cameras, GPS trackers, some defence equipment. Some of this stuff is really interesting. I am thinking of diversifying into powerboats, you can’t race those here but you can on the Italian lakes an hour’s drive away. I’ll need to think of a catchy brand name.”

“A new kind of fast vehicle for you to destroy.”

“Something to keep me busy.”

“What, restaurants and girls aren’t enough?” For all she knows, the snark isn’t really justified, but her irritation shows through. She isn’t sure what to make of this occasion; what to make of Bruce now that he is neither a threat nor an opportunity, seemingly on top of the world once again, seemingly unaffected by the storm he has survived.

He gives her a strange look. “I prefer destroying fast vehicles. I thought of taking up heli-skiing again, but I’ll have to wait for next winter, the snow is almost all gone.”

“Predictable.” She makes it sounds more sceptical than she feels, but the perverse desire to provoke him is getting the better of her.

“Predictable isn’t always boring,” he counters smoothly.

She pretends to take time to admire the dusky panorama beneath. In the gathering dark, the city, the emerald lake, and the identical mountain on the other side of the bay look like something out of a fairy tale, with lights twinkling and muted pearlescent colours slowly turning to deep jewel tones of amethyst and sapphire. The view is gorgeous to say the least, but her mind is elsewhere.

“So now you’re just an ordinary millionaire with a few boltholes and bank accounts around the world, looking for things to fill your time.”

“Something like that. It’s just a couple of places, though. Wainwright has a subsidiary in Brazil, and a research facility near Oxford. That’s pretty much it. Oh, and there’s a production plant in Malaysia.”

Right. He sounds as if he were talking about a pair of rundown shacks.

“Anything in Hong Kong?” she asks on a whim, and is surprised at how quickly he looks up at her. And angry at how it makes her heart skip a beat.

But he goes on seemingly unperturbed. “Just a rep office. A couple of people screening calls, taking orders, and following up on contracts, nothing more, for now.” His expression turns to mock-innocent, and she can’t help finding it endearing despite her annoyance. “On the plus side, the Hong Kong guys earned their keep by helping me figure out which flight you’d be taking.”

“How?” She is glad she didn’t sound too impressed, or pleased to learn that he’d bothered.

“There are ways of doing things,” he replies coyly.

“They helped you hack into airport security.” She tries to sound stern; it really won’t do to suddenly turn into a starry-eyed girl so conveniently soon after he started mentioning big money. He was a mark once, but never since, and never again.

“I only do it on special occasions.”

And that is how he’s charmed innumerable girls, with this captivatingly low voice and mischievous expression and words meant to make them think they are special. But Selina isn’t swayed by playboy banter. “How often would that be?”

He shakes his head a fraction of an inch. “That’s classified information, I’m afraid.” He pauses for a second, and looks her in the eye again in that unnerving manner. He is a few inches taller than her, but manages to tilt his head in a way that he is looking up. “What did you think of the city?”

She wonders if she should try to make him jealous by exaggerating her exploits, but goes for the simplest answer instead. “It’s a nice place. A bit artificial, but exciting. Gotham without the squalor, before the war.” She notices a faraway look passing across his face, but doesn’t question the reason. “I’ve enjoyed it, on balance. Lots of things to do, I found. Places to go.” People to meet. The unsaid part is obvious to both, and she hurries past before she has to mention her feigned widowhood and her cancelled date with the Brazilian. “You’ve been, haven’t you?”

“A few times.” He sounds slightly peeved at her having turned the tables to continue questioning him, but doesn’t comment further, and she isn’t humouring him. He has caught her unawares with his recovered wealth and cool complacency, and if she can unsettle him just a bit in return, so much the better. Besides, she isn’t the one with a tombstone and her name on it; she has a right to ask him a thing ob two.

“Business or pleasure?” she tilts her head to look at him almost-sideways.

“Business mostly, but the last time was... interesting enough to be a pleasure. A thrill ride, anyway.” So much for trying to ruffle him.

“What sort of vehicle did you destroy _there_?”

“Believe it or not, none. Just a high-rise tower, and a mafia boss’s business.”

“Sounds fun.” She’d like to know more, but doesn’t want to sound too eager or too admiring.

“It was,” he admits. He looks like he is about to say more, and she is disappointed when he doesn’t. “How did _you_ end up in Hong Kong?” he asks instead, all-too-casually.

She is not ready to admit what had led her to that point, that she’d run there to try and stop missing him. “Spun the globe, as it were, and got lucky. I could have ended up in Outer Mongolia.”

For once, his eyes are smiling when his mouth is. “Don’t knock it, it isn’t at all bad.”

She has a crazy idea of asking him to go there, tomorrow, now. Not because she really wants to see it, but because she wants to see his expression when she suggests it. And because she’d love to see what it would be like to tag along with him on a crazy-ass journey. But she is not sure if this suave businessman will appreciate the proposition.

“Alfred knows you’re alive, doesn’t he?” she asks instead. It is logical that he would, but she remembers the old man’s quiet heartbreak well enough to care.

He nods, looking thoughtful, for once; she is glad to catch this flash of humanity.

“When did you tell him?”

“A few days later.” He notices her reproachful eyes. “As soon as I was able to track him down.”

She wonders if she could ask him about the black velvet box and the card inside, but somehow can’t find the right words.

“You went back to Gotham to find him?” she asks instead.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t have a chance. Besides, I was dead,” he adds with a patently fake grin.

They’ve finished the main course; she orders an _affogato al caffe_ to his single malt. Waiting for the dessert to arrive, she has a sinking feeling that this has all gone wrong. There is no trace of the man embarking on a suicide mission whom she kissed in the midst of war-torn Gotham; this is vintage Wayne, cool, nonchalant, shallow almost, who can once again presumably pick his women as accessories that suit a particular evening, or a particular restaurant. He has answered every question she asked but it seems to her like she has been hitting a brick wall. He is sitting before her bare-faced, but it is as if the mask were melded into his skin, tougher than carbon fiber. _Bruce Wayne, eccentric billionaire_. A modern-day Sphinx, all razor-sharp cheekbones and dark eyes and a wavy mane, part man, part beast, all riddle.

“So you just flew straight to Switzerland in whatever escape craft you were in, and stayed here?” She suspects it to be impossible, but can’t think of a more elegant way of asking the obvious.

“Not quite.”

“And how did you know to pick up a spare Swiss passport before you boarded the Bat?” she presses on.

“I didn’t.”

At this rate, he’ll be at Batman levels of reticence before she knows it. “But you got it _somehow_.”

And in a snap, the flippant Bruce Wayne is back. “You’ll love this. My money manager chartered a plane to get it to me.”

She doesn’t _love_ the explanation, but it does raise more questions she is too curious, and too confused, not to ask.

“Your money manager had presumably heard that you’d died.”

“Two words: _numbered accounts_. Markus is based here in Basel, and he only knew me as a string of digits until I told him my name was Wainwright. But the guy is extremely attached to me by virtue of the management fee I am paying him. So when his beloved client called to say he’d crashed his ride and lost his papers and asked to extract his Swiss passport from safekeeping at his company offices and advance him some money, Markus went above and beyond the call of duty.”

He waits for her to scoop up the rest of her liqueur-smothered ice cream, finishes the last of his whisky, tells the maitre d’ to charge the dinner to his account, and follows her across the terrace to the railway that is to take them, at a crazy incline, back down the mountain. Selina bites back on a frustrated growl, feels her fingernails digging into her palms. She has blundered into forgetting her sensible self and building up her expectations of this meeting, and what a fine mess she is in now. With all her questioning she has turned this dinner into an interrogation, and still got her nowhere near to asking the questions she _really_ wanted answered.

They ride in silence to the intermediate station halfway down the mountain, Selina pretending to watch the city lights below and pretending not to notice Bruce watching her.

“Can I offer you a ride?” he asks when they get out at the halfway point. “My car is parked a couple of hundred yards away.”

She doesn’t need one, although she wants one; still, she isn’t going to go after crumbs when the dinner has been a disappointment. “My hotel is just under the mountain, less than half a mile from the station. It will take us longer to walk to your car and drive down than it’ll take me to get there with the _funicolare_.”

He looks sideways at her. “The Eden or the Splendide?”

She shakes her head. “The Principe Leopoldo.”

He nods, more to himself than to her. “Much nicer.”

He walks her to the other side of the platform, and she wonders if they’ll just say goodbye and go their separate ways. Insane as it is, it looks increasingly like a possibility. Just when she is ready to climb down and ask him out for lunch, he beats her to it.

“Selina… will I see you again?”

In that instant, the mask slips; he looks so damn insecure that she is a split second away from kissing him uninvited a third time. But she is tougher than that, there are people watching, and no, damn it, she isn’t going to make it easy for him, not after being treated to Bruce Smug Bastard Wayne for the better part of two hours.

“Would you like to?”

He doesn’t answer, just kisses her on the cheeks, flashes her the faintest hint of a smile, and walks away into the darkness when the warning rings out for the railcar about to depart.

This, now, is her cue. Selina may have had a bad day, but there is more to her than Selina, she thinks as she slips through the closing doors and around the platform to board the car going back up.

***

How hard is it to see a Lamborghini from a mountain top at night? She is about to find out. Peering into the black void sprinkled with tiny yellow dots, Selina doesn’t want to think about the odds.

Carona, he said, about a mile south as the crow flies, and her phone GPS has duly given it to her; three miles on the road from Pazzallo, the hamlet near the _funicolare_ halfway station. But she is damned if she can see any moving headlights going that way... until he rounds a sharp bend just over half a mile away from where she stands and, by the look of it, about a thousand feet below, and the long-range beam flares in her field of vision and she allows herself a tight smile, and waits.

A minute or two later, she sees the lights come on in the middle of a dark patch on the ridge extending south from Monte San Salvatore and checks her GPS. In the northern approaches to Carona, two roads branch off to her left, toward the cliff edge facing the lake. A terrain map shows one going downhill, but the other one seems to go right to the crest.

Gotcha.

For a second time that night, she strolls to the cable railway station and makes the trip back to Lugano.

***

The night air feels cold through the silk bodysuit, and she is glad to have put on the jacket when she hastily changed in her room, but there is no way she’d wear the leather trousers. The damn stuff _creaks_ , and she has no intention of announcing her arrival, no matter what she does once she is there. Which, as of this moment, is still to be decided, she reflects, gunning the accelerator.

She wanted to follow him to his home as soon as he asked her if he’d see her again, but she was stumped finding a pretext. The obvious thing would be to steal the Sesto – for kicks, not for any kind of gain, but that same _obvious_ factor renders it boring. The next obvious thing would be to play sort-of-noble and return the pearls, but it would smack too much of a pissed-off girlfriend, and she is neither sufficiently pissed off nor sufficiently girlfriend at the moment. She may just have to settle for doing what she really wants, which is to sit him down and ask him the couple of things she never got a chance to ask in her exhaustive and futile questioning session of a dinner date. And if he doesn’t want to answer, that will be an answer in itself.

Once she has driven a mile through the empty Lugano streets and negotiated another mile of crazy hairpin turns at the start of the Carona road, she stops at the start of the only relatively straight mile of her excursion, kills the headlight, and flips on her goggles. Strictly speaking, it is an unnecessary precaution – not to mention dangerous, as it makes her virtually invisible to any passing cars or people. Not that there are any on this mountain road at a quarter to eleven; the Swiss aren’t exactly known for their late night revels. Then again, anyone living this many hairpin bends away from the nearest nightspot would have to be suicidal in order to become a regular patron. But driving the remaining three miles in the dark using her goggles, assuming that she survives the last two miles’ worth of turns, will get her eyes accustomed, once again, to seeing the world in grainy, muted shades of green, something that should help her get close to his villa unnoticed, spotting and hopefully bypassing whatever cameras he may have put up.

She parks the motorbike just off the main road, a few yards from the spot where a stretch branches off to the left toward the cliffs, and opens the trunk to store her helmet and leather jacket. The rental company wants customers to take good care of its prize bikes; the bottom of the trunk compartment is taken up by a rain cover. As she reaches inside to push it down in order to fit her stuff in the confined space, her hands brush against a coil of rough fabric. She pulls at it and hisses a satisfied “yesss!” – they’ve thrown in a pair of elastic luggage cords, should anyone be crazy enough to want to put a suitcase on top of the trunk. Assuming that the villa is protected by a fence, or that any open windows she may come across may be some distance off the ground, these are likely to come in handy. Wrapping her trophy around her waist and fastening the cords together with the metal hooks at the ends, she runs a final quick check on the GPS and walks the remaining two hundred yards along the dark road leading to the villa, slowing down in the last fifty to scan for surveillance.

There doesn’t seem to be any. OK, not quite true, but considering the business Bruce owns, it is really appalling. What was that old adage, something about the cobbler’s wife going unshod? There doesn’t seem to be anything beyond a regular camera above the main gate, and once she has stepped off the paved road and walked ten yards to the left along the six-foot stone fence – no barbed wire, no spikes – she will be in the clear, and that’s even assuming the thing has enough sensitivity to pick things out in such light conditions. No motion detectors in sight – she picks up a pebble and throws it toward the fence; no red dots come on. She walks twice her intended distance away from the gate and runs a careful hand over the top of the fence; no shards of glass. Content, she uncoils the elastic cords, doubles them up, and does her best to sink the hooks into the crevices between the stones at the inward-facing side before levering herself up and hopping over.

The Lamborghini is nowhere to be seen and the house seems completely dark now, but she is positive that she is at the right spot, if only by looking at the place. The villa may have none of Wayne Manor’s forbidding Gothic gloom and, seemingly, none of the ostentation of his vast downtown Gotham penthouse, and may be stark white instead of black, but it’s totally him. Modern to the point of futuristic, like some sort of hovercraft, all clean lines and subtly curved surfaces, long, wide windows and a wraparound terrace in place of a deck, perched on the clifftop overlooking the countless mountains all around and the twists and turns of the lake far below.

But she has no time to admire this wonder of modern Swiss architecture. By the look of it, incredible as it is, it looks like Bruce may have acquired the local habit of going to bed before midnight, and much as she’d be curious to see his reaction if she woke him up, it would sort of defeat the object of having a calm, quick little chat.

Whoever designed the terrace railing is her best friend, she finds out; for the terrace is bordered by a tempered glass barrier with a thin steel railing on top, just like a boat deck, and that steel railing is a perfect grappling point for her cord hooks. She creeps back to the stone fence and with an effort, unbends the hooks a fraction of an inch by pressing the tips against the stone and pulling on the cord with all her weight. This way, they should catch on the railing but still hold when she uses the cords to leap up. It takes her a couple of attempts to make them catch, but after a light trial jump and a mental prayer that she does not bump full force into the glass and make an idiot of herself, her hands land, surprisingly luckily, on the concrete ledge below the glass, and letting go of the cords, she levers herself up. No cameras or motion sensors here either, as far as she can see, just a couple of wicker armchairs next to a glass-top coffee table and beyond them, a floor-length window opening onto the terrace.

Ahhh… _nice_. Bruce, never one to skimp on luxury, at least in his public persona, has installed a hot tub right at the lakeside edge of the terrace. The view alone is worth millions, though knowing him, she wonders if he has ever really used it. Walking up to the tub to better check out the panorama, she is uncomfortably aware of being a black figure in the middle of a white terrace, and she doubles back to retrieve the cords from the railing and turn her attention to the task at hand.

This is really embarrassing, Mr Wainwright of Wainwright Security. She’ll at least grant him the precaution of having locked the sliding glass door, but it takes her a few seconds to pry it open using a slip of plastic she had hidden in her sleeve as standard minimum-security housebreaking gear. Inside, the dark room beyond is hidden from view by sliding shutters. She slowly pushes the glass door open an inch and listens; the only sound reaching her ears is reassuringly similar to water running in a shower somewhere nearby. She listens a few seconds longer, then pushes the door wide enough to slip through, nudges the shutter – it gives without resistance – and steps inside, into what is revealed to her as the master bedroom suite.

She quickly slides the door and the shutter back into place and puts her cords down next to the opening end. She shouldn’t have any trouble getting out of here, but if, for example, it turns out that Bruce is in that shower with a girl or two, she may want to get out fast, and unnoticed. Thankfully, there is a diaphanous white silk curtain drawn across the window, pooling on the floor in lazy folds; standing behind it in a dark room should give her a precious second or so of a head start. She hears the water shut off and almost laughs at herself for how nervous she is.

She fights the impulse to shield her eyes from the bright green flash when he opens the door and steps from the bathroom, alone, into the master suite; her goggles compensate almost immediately before he hits the switch and her green-tinged field of vision readjusts to the near-darkness. He was mercifully looking the wrong way to notice her behind the billowing white curtain before he switched off the bathroom light, and shouldn’t be able to see a thing at this rate. But he knows the room well enough to unerringly find his way around the bed.

Selina forces herself to stay perfectly still and breathe slowly as the ghostly green silhouette, barefoot and wearing what looks like black silk pyjama bottoms, walks over right to where she is. He is limping again; he wasn’t earlier that night. Up close, she can see the lines of fresh scars on his upper body, black in her distorted vision. It’s all too much, _he_ is too much, and she curses herself for having got herself in over her head. So much for the _calm, quick little chat_ idea. Why won’t he just lie down? How does he know she is here, and why won’t he say a word if he does?

Turns out, he doesn’t. He draws aside the curtain and reaches out to open the shutters… and at that moment, knowing that her cover is as good as blown anyway, she makes her move.

He reacts instantly, but the advantage is on her side; unlike he, Selina can see him. She sidesteps and grabs his arms from behind, plastering herself against his back.

He wastes no time guessing. “Selina…”

She says nothing.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He makes no attempt to extricate himself. It would be no effort at all; but he would likely have to throw her on the floor in the process, and she knows he won’t do that.

“I never answered your question,” she purrs, bringing her lips as close to his ear as the goggles allow. _Will I see you again?_ “The answer, as you see, is definitely _yes_.” She lets go of his arms and lets her hands roam across his chest, running her fingernails lightly across warm skin, enjoying the way the muscles ripple in their wake.

“How very…” In that instant he spins around, his hands locking on her shoulders like a twin vise. “…caring of you.” She looks up at him; he looks wide-eyed straight ahead, at where he knows her face is, trying to make it out. And he looks like he is enjoying it too much for her liking. It hits her then; Bruce Wayne, or whatever he may choose to call himself, is neither criminal nor mark, neither threat nor opportunity, never was. The man is a _challenge_.

She brings her elbows sharply on top of his arms, breaking his hold, and steps aside, taking her bearings. Her advantage won’t last; he can hear her breathing now, and he knows the layout of the room well enough to move confidently even in the dark. Before he can grab her again, she lunges for him, pushing him sideways and tripping him up to land him on the bed. Oddly, her next thought is hoping she didn’t make his messed-up knee worse than it already evidently is. But when she looks at the bed she sees him grinning in her general direction.

If you can’t beat them, join them.

But before she leaps onto the bed next to him, she dives for the floor next to the still-closed shutters to snatch the elastic cords she left there.

She might not have to choose between beating him and joining him, after all.

_Damn_ , he is fast. She is caught in his arms before she can react, her breasts pressed against his chest, her hand letting go of the strands of cord as he runs his hands over her silk-clad body; and it is embarrassing how loudly and desperately she cries out when his lips find her neck, the only exposed stretch of skin other than her face and hands. Those poor girls must have stood no chance against him; never mind the money, one kiss like that and they’d have followed him all over Gotham. Not one to give up on his advantage, he trails his tongue up her jaw, flips up her goggles, and kisses her, forcefully and unceremoniously, full on the lips.

She is set alight and rendered boneless; her head swims and her limbs tremble, and she has to do something before she is reduced to begging quivering jelly. She wants him more than she can say, but she doesn’t want to become a notch on a bedpost, or else come tomorrow she’ll be thoroughly fucked in both senses and no better off for it. She has bedded plenty of strangers in her time, but she is not bedding this particular stranger until she knows exactly who she is dealing with. Making him want it just as desperately as she does is another matter, though.

He is enjoying his victory, laughing against her lips when they finally end the kiss. “Is this the part where you kill me?”

“Precisely.” She slithers free from his embrace, fumbles for the cords and, before he can figure out what she is doing, slips them over his upper arms and tightens a knot behind his back, pinning his arms behind his body. It shouldn’t hurt – the cords have enough give – but it should lend her the upper hand, and leave her in control at least for a while, until he manages – or bothers – to extricate himself. Which, for the moment, seems about the last thing he wants to do. She can’t bother to put on her goggles again – she can either wear them or kiss him, and there is no competition – but even in the impenetrable dark, she can feel him grinning.

“What are you doing, woman?” he all-but-purrs at her.

“Making sure” – she flips him onto his back – “you don’t” – she settles next to him, half draped over his body – “fly away from me again.”

He has the cheek to laugh at that.

Well, if she can have her way for a couple of minutes, he won’t be laughing for much longer.

Patience is a virtue, she reminds herself. She takes her time, stroking his skin, caressing the scars, all the while teasing him with kisses slow enough to be maddeningly arousing but too short to become passionate. She hears him hissing when she runs her fingernails down his chest, and knows that pain has nothing to do with it. She would _kill_ to pull off her skintight garment and just roll with it, but knows that he is no fool, anything but; as soon as he figures out what she is doing, he will know that he will have a few seconds free while she is busy and she is damned if he doesn’t extricate his arms in that time – and then she’ll lose any vestige of willpower she needs to be able to walk away. She cranes her neck to run her tongue over his nipples, down his chest to the hard abs as her hand slips lower, ghosting over his lower abdomen and finally stroking his hard cock through the slippery silk.

No, he is _definitely_ not laughing by now.

She brings her head back up to nibble at his ear before whispering, so close that her lips touch skin. “Missed me?”

“You have no idea.” There is no mistaking the strain in his voice. Even Batman didn’t growl so low.

As always, when she least expects it, he twists up on the bed and _just like that_ , she finds him free of the cord and on top of her, pinning her down. Damn it all to hell; by now she’d give practically anything to stay and let him have his way with her; but if she does it now, she will never get what she really wants, will never peel the damn mask off his face; he’ll think he has her anyway, and never bother to be anything but Wayne. With an effort that is more her willpower winning over her desire than physical struggle, she slips out from under him, picks up the cords lying abandoned on top of the sheets, undoing the knot still tying them as she runs over to the terrace door, pushes it open, hooks the cords to the steel railing, grabs them and leaps down from the terrace, landing in a crouch before sprinting off toward the fence – the adrenaline lets her vault over using her bare hands this time – and to her motorbike waiting beyond.

She doesn’t look back to see if he is watching her, doesn’t even bother with the jacket; to hell with the chilly air. She turns on the headlight this time, careening down the hairpin road as fast as the engine and shards of common sense let her, confident that he’ll follow, hell-bent on stretching it out as long as she can.

When she slows down before the final hairpin mile and realises that there is no roaring engine behind her, she is taken aback. She even takes off her helmet to listen. Nothing. It feels like an icy shower. She literally jumped into bed with him, and the bastard doesn’t even bother to chase her? That settles it; she’ll be on the next plane back to Hong Kong before he knows it, no matter if it leaves from Zurich or Milan or Geneva at six in the morning and if she has to make three stopovers on the way. And then she’ll see if or when he follows and see if she feels like setting eyes on his face again.

***

She is not surprised to see the familiar black shape parked commandingly in the middle of the hotel courtyard.

Not really.

Ridiculously happy is more like it.

Its owner is casually leaning on the hood, wearing the most inappropriate clothes for someone who drives this sort of car: those same black satin pyjamas, his only concessions to decorum being a matching shirt and a pair of black velvet loafers.

And yes, she is strutting her stuff for all it’s worth in her skintight outfit once she has dismounted the bike. And no, she is not ashamed.

He is watching her every step with the smouldering hunger of a predator, those razor-sharp cheekbones and dark eyes a study of contrasts caught sideways in the light of the hotel entrance.

But the mask is no longer there.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” She walks into his personal space until there is none of it left to invade, her hands latching onto the satin shirt.

Up close, his face looks softer. “I completely forgot my manners. You’ve answered _my_ question, but I never answered yours.” She remembers her parting shot on the platform. _Would you like to?_

“And…?”

“The answer, as you see,” he whispers her words back to her, “is definitely _yes_.”

The satin is a magnet for roaming hands; she can’t keep hers off him, which is probably, perversely, the safer option: if they start kissing here and now, there will definitely be no public decency laws left for them to break in the space of five minutes. Although when he reciprocates, sliding his hands down her body, she starts suspecting that they’ll end up doing it anyway.

He draws her closer, his lips brushing against her ear sending shivers down her spine. “It’s cruel to leave a guy’s bed after giving him a raging hard-on.”

She grins like the proverbial cat that got the cream. “You’ve survived.”

“Barely.”

“How did you beat me here?” It’s a safer thing to discuss, for the moment.

He answers with a soft laugh. “It’s all a bit... technical. There’s a ventilation and service shaft right outside the villa grounds that connects to the stretch of highway passing through the Grancia tunnel on the way to Lugano, a thousand feet directly below Carona. The thing was belching fumes and creating noise too close to the village, and the highway management company was getting tired of complaints but didn’t have the budget to do anything about it.”

“And you made a deal with them.”

“Naturally. I offered to pay for air and noise filters and maintain them...”

“On one condition.”

“Exactly. That I could also install a winch lift and two short side tunnels at the top and bottom of the shaft...”

“Connecting to your house and to the highway.”

“You got it. Sometimes I’m too lazy to drive up the Carona road.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Turns out it’s also convenient for catching up with… burglars.”

Boys and their toys. “ _Plus ça change_...”

“Are you accusing me of being predictable?”

“I am finding that predictable isn’t always boring.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.” He uses his free hand that is not currently stroking her back to push off the hood. “By the way, talking about predictable offers, it’s time I finally gave you a ride.”

She might reason that she is at her hotel already, but going back to his place doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all; so she just walks over to the other side of the car and slides into the passenger seat.

A couple of minutes later, it becomes apparent to her that they are not going to his place after all.

“Where are we going?”

He smirks sideways at her. “Where any half-good host would take a first-time visitor. Sightseeing.”

***

A quarter of an hour later, they are standing on top of another mountain – San Salvatore’s twin Bré on the other side of the bay Lugano sits around. It is the same height as San Salvatore, but is less steep, and as a consequence, has a road going almost all the way to the top, which also allows the cable railcar to stop running at seven in the evening. They’ve had to climb the last two hundred yards of the road that were too steep for the Sesto to negotiate safely, and are reaping their reward taking in the glorious view, the city’s lights sparkling like scattered diamonds and flecks of gold in the velvet darkness reflected in the dull blue mirror of the lake.

Selina climbs on top of a stone post holding the iron fencing in place, swinging her legs over, feeling Bruce’s hand immediately close around her arm. To anyone else, she’d probably quip that she is a big girl capable of taking care of herself even when sitting two thousand feet above a steep drop; but with this particular guardian, doesn’t mind. They stay side by side enveloped by the darkness, comfortable in its familiar cocoon.

“Can I ask you something?” He says it very softly, but still startles her.

“Sure,” she says, just above a breath.

“Why now?”

She doesn’t need to ask _what_. But she can’t yet bring herself to spill the truth about her misguided heartbreak.

“Did you wonder where I was?” she asks instead, spinning around to face him.

He does not answer immediately. “Yes.”

“Me too. Actually, I thought there was nothing to wonder about. I wish you’d told me about the autopilot.” It comes out harsher and more bitter than she meant it, and she is on the verge of apologising when he answers.

“Bane said once that there was no despair without hope, and that creating false hope that was bound to be dashed was the most effective torture. It’s about the only thing the critter ever said that I can see any sense in.”

She ponders it. “You could at least have let me know later that you’d survived.”

“I couldn’t. Not for a while.”

“What happened?”

“It’s not a fun story,” he says very softly, as if hesitantly, and then plunges ahead, his voice emotionless but unerring. “I landed in New Jersey so badly messed up I still can’t believe I made it. Basically, I was lucky to be in a state of shock because I didn’t feel the pain, and had a few minutes to rip off the suit, put it into the escape pod, and set the thing to sink itself, and then crawl onto the nearest road and ask to be taken to emergency. My legs weren’t working at all. I don’t even remember who stopped and took me there. And guess what, the first things they ask you in emergency wards, even if you’re fucking dying, are an ID and a credit card. I had neither, so I asked to make a call, and they let me. I had no idea where Alfred was, and I knew I had no hope of reaching Lucius or Jim or John... or you. So I called the number I remembered that I knew would be answered, which was the bank in Basel, of all places. And once I’d said the right passwords, they put me through to Markus on his cell phone. I told you the rest.”

_My money manager chartered a plane to get it to me_. It sounded so damn boastful back then.

“What good was calling a guy in Switzerland when you were _dying_?”

“First, he immediately issued a financial guarantee to get me emergency treatment. Then he chartered a medical plane from the WHO in Geneva with a doctor and a couple of nurses to pick me up and bring me here. And he’d managed to get my passport on that plane. I’d say it wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve done in my lifetime,” he says with a wry smile.

Yeah, like trusting a thief who betrayed you. “And what the medical crew did was enough to save you?”

“It was a start. I don’t really know who did what, how much of it the emergency ward did and how much the Swiss crew did. I was unconscious and under a shitload of medication by the time they arrived. And then I was in hospitals here for weeks. For the first few days they mostly kept me in an induced coma, they said it was because of the pain I’d be in otherwise and because of all the operations they’d had to do. They said I was lucky to have a strong heart so they could operate at once. There was massive internal bleeding and organ failure from Talia’s knife, the way she’d twisted it and pulled it out, and on top of that, they’d had to give me multiple bone marrow transplants to counter the radiation poisoning and had to pretty much rewire my spine. The prison doctor had kind of reset it after Bane screwed it up,” he mutters, hurrying through the words as if it could spare Selina the searing shame of remembering why it had happened, “but it only held because I’d worked up the muscle tone in my back after that and it was shot to pieces again when I landed the escape pod. And I’d managed to break a couple of minor bones and crack half my ribs on top of that.”

By this point she has climbed down from the fence post and is standing right next to him, her face hidden against his shoulder. “How did you manage to find Alfred, then?”

“I didn’t, Markus did. The first time they’d let me come around for more than a few seconds, I asked to see him and said it was urgent. Sure enough, the guy was there the next time I was conscious – I told you how much he loves my money – and I told him to go find Alfred Pennyworth at Wayne Manor outside Gotham, I knew he’d have to come to Gotham as the executor and main beneficiary on my will, and tell him to come to Florence in early June. Markus thought I’d gone crazy, but I knew Alfred would know what it meant. Most likely, Markus himself had put two and two together between my name and the dead Mr Wayne, but he is paid not to ask questions and to keep his mouth shut. And I told him to bring me a piece of Wainwright letterhead for me to sign, which he procured in two hours, which meant he’d had to hire a helicopter considering that we were in Geneva and Wainwright HQ is here. He couldn’t think of anything better than the stupid _compliments_ card, I remember that. I told him to take it with him to Alfred and ask Alfred to send it on with the pearls, knowing that Alfred would fill in the blanks. I wasn’t sure he’d find you but it was worth a try. And I knew I couldn’t really write anything in case the card got into the wrong hands before it reached you... plus I wasn’t really in any shape to write more than three letters in a row... so I just signed it and thought you’d figure it out.”

And what a royal fool she must be for taking three damn months to do so. “I did. Eventually.”

“I meant it as a sort of... emergency beacon. There is a tracker in the clasp of the pearls, a passive GPS transceiver, but it’s relatively short range, a few miles at most, and needs recharging after a few days, so it’s not as if I could find you or keep track of you. And at that point I still wasn’t too sure I’d survive, and not at all sure if I’d ever walk again. I didn’t do it to ask you to find me, and I wasn’t sure you’d want to, but I thought that way you’d have a number to call if you needed help. I figured I’d tell Theo your name in case I didn’t make it, but in the end, I didn’t need to,” he goes on, ignoring the way her fingers dig into his shoulder. “When you called yesterday I thought you were in trouble until you implied wanting to kill me. That was a relief.” She can hear the smile in his voice, and echoes it reflexively, a corner of her mouth brushing against the satin. She got her own personal Bat-signal in gold lettering, and she managed not to see it.

“How long have you been around, then?”

“As in, out of hospital? A couple of months. At least six weeks. It wasn’t a one-off departure. I’d still come in for therapy and the like after I checked out, I still have to even now, once a week, but it’s just for a couple of hours at a time. They’re now saying they want to operate on my knee to replace the shredded cartilage to let me walk without the brace. I’ll have to get it done soon to be back to normal before the ski-ing season starts. I spent a lot of time just training with therapists supervising me, getting the muscle strength back. Theo still can’t believe how I showed up in a wheelchair for our first meeting two months ago, and walked into the next one two weeks later. And after that I started spending my time wrangling the company from him.” He laughs as he says it. “But as I said, we’ve managed to find common ground. I think he understood that I needed it, that I was looking for a chance to... feel alive... again.” The _again_ is an afterthought; it’s as if he’d meant to say “alive _for once_ ”. She is scared to think of what it means.

“I’m sorry I didn’t show up until now,” she whispers, not sure if he’ll catch it, not sure if she even wants him to. Sure enough, he does.

“Don’t be. You didn’t miss much. I actually tried to see if I could find any trace of you by the time I was conscious on a more or less permanent basis, but of course by then you’d run the _CleanSlate_. I just wanted to know you’d made it, but I kept telling myself that it was best if I didn’t try to look for you unless you tried to look for me first.”

“Why?”

“I’m usually bad news to the people I care about.” She doesn’t know which is greater, her happiness at the _care about_ part or her anguish at his _bad news_ conviction. “My first love, who I’d known since we were kids, died because of me, and the man _she_ loved died... with her. I’d been too... anxious to keep an eye on her, and it killed her. I wasn’t going to... be like that again. Besides, I really had nothing, no life to offer you, and I thought it would be best if you were free.”

“To do what?”

“To steal jewellery,” he quips, ignoring her bitter tone. “To find a guy who wasn’t bed-ridden or wheelchair-bound. To do what you wanted.”

And if what I wanted was to be with you? “That assumes stealing jewellery is all I care about. Thieves are greedy, but it also means that I hate _losing_ what I care about.” Or whom.

“You weren’t supposed to care about _me_.”

She is so angry, and so hurt, that she wants to hit him, six weeks in hospital and all. The absolute worst part is that she knows that she deserves it. A year ago, she would have walked away not knowing who she was walking away from. Just as she was about to do eight months ago, before Bane’s bleating voice spelled the end of that in the sounds of his name, ripping off the mask of cold calculation that had melded too deep into her skin. _Selina Kyle, cold-blooded thief_. Look at her now.

“I do.”

“I know. But I thought it was the Batman and not Bruce Wayne that you cared about, and I couldn’t give you that anymore. And here you show up, all cool and drop dead gorgeous, and ask me all sorts of questions and tell me nothing, and I have no idea what and _who_ it is you’re after.”

“Not the Batman. Not Wayne. _You_.” She blinks away the tears, not caring if she gets his shirt wet and he knows she is crying. “You know why I didn’t call you before yesterday? I never opened the box until then. I knew what was in it, and couldn’t bring myself to look at them. It hurt too much. I had no idea about the card. It’s… stupid, really,” she finishes lamely.

“Hey.” She feels his fingertips brush her cheek, soft as a feather. “I was the stupid one, not you. I should have given Alfred strict instructions to stick the card to the outside.” He pulls her in front of him and takes her face in his hands, and she knows it is beyond ridiculous that she should cry harder when she is so happy it’s all over, but there you have it, and she knows that kissing with a tear-stained face will get salt on both their tongues, but honestly, who cares.

***

Someone should spare a thought for poor lovers stranded on mountaintop terraces in the middle of the night, really. All this space and this view and nothing more comfortable to perch on than the plastic chairs and flimsy tables of the lunch cafe.

Not that it stops them; not for a while, at any rate.

Bruce, of all people, is the reasonable one. “Let’s get out of here and go home before we fly into the lake,” he mutters in her ear, pulling her away from the fencepost she has once again tried to sit on as she beckoned him to come closer. She is happier than she is willing to admit with the _home_ connotation; on the one hand, what she would probably like best is for him to fuck her right here and now, but there are advantages to waiting until they are on a bed and where it won’t involve her getting completely naked in what is technically a public place… not that she’d never want to do it _here_ , but it can wait.

“I hope you’re a fast driver,” she says, as seriously as she can bring herself to deliver the line... and defeats the object by giggling like a fool afterwards.

“You haven’t _seen_ fast,” he shoots back.

She does see _fast_ when they are back at the villa in under fifteen minutes, when it would have taken any normal person closer to half an hour. Then again, she suspects, there was no way he was driving any slower than that with the way she’d sat silently in the passenger seat, her eyes never leaving his profile and her hand never leaving… another part of him.

***

She wakes up in a sort of lazy confusion, not knowing what time it is or where she is. She opens one eye; It doesn’t look like her Hong Kong suite, or the Canadian guesthouse, or Gotham. And she can’t believe she picked a really hard pillow to sleep on, so much so that her ear is aching. Slowly, she opens the other eye and discovers that she is not on a pillow at all, but draped over Bruce Whatever-his-name in the middle of a vast bed in a sunlit bedroom that suggests, at the very least, late morning close to noon. She takes in the pool of black silk on the floor, the white curtains on the wall-to-wall French window drawn aside to reveal the terrace beyond covered in puddles of water from the hot tub and graced with a pile of bedding in the middle. She remembers that at some point they’d thought it would be fun to camp out there, but can’t remember exactly when it happened or which of them suggested it, or at which point they decided that the bed was more comfortable for their purposes. Thinking further back, she doesn’t know how they’d even made it up the stairs and into the master suite in the first place, considering how many times they’d stopped on the way. All things considered, though, her fuzzy memory of last night isn’t surprising given how her brain had melted several times over; all she remembers clearly is an endless mantra of “yes” and “please”; but she isn’t even sure which of them uttered it the most times.

She cranes her neck up to look at him, hoping to catch him still asleep – and starts when she sees him watching her, surreptitiously and intently, through his eyelashes.

“You’re awake.”

“That depends,” is the cryptic answer.

“On what?”

“On whether you’re real.”

She scratches him, her fingernails leaving thin white lines fading on his skin. “Real enough? Or shall I bite you for greater verisimilitude?”

“Have pity on a poor cripple,” he chuckles.

She counters it with her best headmistress impersonation. “We both know you aren’t poor, and if you dare call yourself a cripple after last night, you’re a bigger liar than I am.”

He smirks down at her. “Trust me, I have so much titanium in my body I get metal detectors lighting up like Christmas trees.”

She does bite him then, just a little. “The only part of your body that felt like titanium last night...” She starts but can’t finish; they are both laughing as he rolls them around... again.

***

The next time they wake up is definitely mid-afternoon; and by then, both are hungry enough to admit that they actually need to think about getting out of bed. “I should buy that place,” Bruce mutters peevishly. “No idea if I’ll get a reservation now, it’s always full. We may have to drive over to LakeComo, an hour away, to get to the nearest good one.”

“I never knew you hated driving so much,” she teases.

“It depends on what _alternative uses_ we can put our time to,” he reasons, and even though she is laughing she can see the sense in that. “Do you have to go back to Hong Kong, by the way?”

She shrugs. “I bought a one-way ticket. Of course I can always – “

“How much stuff do you have there?” he cuts in before she can finish.

“Not much. Just what’s in my suite, it shouldn’t be more than a mid-size suitcase.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Principe Leopoldo, remember?”

“No, I mean over there.”

“The Mandarin.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “You have an eye for the good places.” Before she can ask what it is about, he is on the phone. “Theo? Bruce- Brandon here. I told you it’s a nickname, never mind how I got it, it’s a long story. Am I interrupting anything? Sorry, I had... something urgent to attend to this morning. Sure, I’ll stop by tomorrow morning and we’ll go over it. Listen, there’s something I need you to do right now. Call our Hong Kong office and ask Lin to talk to the VIP desk at the Mandarin Oriental so that they let her into the suite booked by Miss Céline Caille. I know it’s almost midnight there, tell her you’re really sorry. She should pack up everything in there, Céline says it should just fill a suitcase, and bring it here. Yes, of course she’ll send a written authorisation. She’s… a business partner. She was the best cat burglar in Gotham, or one of the top three, anyway. We couldn’t dream of a better person to help us test the systems, just as you suggested. I’ll spell it for you; C-E-L-I…”

Selina rolls over, gets up, slowly and lazily, and plucks at the black silk puddle, picking up a garment before slinking away into the shower; it’s only when she has closed the bathroom door behind her that she allows herself a wickedly triumphant smile. She stands under the hot water just long enough to feel fully awake – her aching muscles will have to just live with it – and once dressed, tiptoes out of the bathroom and out of the master suite as fast and as quietly as she can, seeing Bruce still in conversation with, presumably, Theo, and makes her way downstairs. There is no way she is going to tolerate this outrage. _Top three_ , my foot. _Business partner_ , damn it. Even if the implicit proposition is almost too good, not to mention too convenient, to be true, Bruce needs to be taught a lesson over his presumptuousness.

She did remember something right; they were, indeed, too, well, _busy_ last night for him to have remembered to take the key out of the ignition. Stealing the Sesto is an old trick, but stealing it _and_ his nightclothes is a nice twist he might appreciate. She notices the smaller vehicle in her peripheral vision, this must be the motorbike he talked about. Harley Night Rod Special, a beautiful matte black beast with scarlet piping… figures. She is briefly tempted to take it instead, but suspects that her borrowed satin outfit is better suited to driving something with less driver visibility and more wind protection. She wonders if she can use the lift to get to the highway, but even though she sees the steel shutters that must be sealing off the tunnel leading to it, there is no way she can figure out the combination on the keypad lock next to it before Bruce guesses the likely reason for her disappearance and comes looking. So she settles for pressing the control buttons for the garage and the gate, climbs into the driver’s seat, and drives away laughing, the satin cool against her skin, the incredible machine at her command, the majestic vista unfurling before her eyes with every sharp turn. She wonders how long it will take him to catch up; with any luck she’ll make it into Lugano and will either manage to disappear into the city streets or get onto the highway to make him _really_ appreciate the attendant consequences of _top three_.

No such luck. Just over three miles down the road, a good couple of miles before she reaches the city, she sees what looks like a black missile shoot past her to do an impossibly tight about-turn and come to a stop facing her in the middle of the road less than a hundred yards ahead, barely leaving her enough space to brake. Spoilsport. She knew it.

Then again, she reflects, some of the best things in life are, in fact, predictable.

But never boring.

 

_fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> By way of a footnote, I am reasonably well familiar with Lugano and environs, having lived in relative proximity, and must confess that while I stayed true to reality in all local matters, I turned the rather indifferent restaurant at the top of Monte San Salvatore into a much fancier place. But there really is a great spot for a (second) terrace restaurant up there, should a former billionaire playboy feel like opening one ; ) 
> 
> I’ve since gone back to Lugano (and to Carona) and have posted picspams of these on my LJ page. They are not mandatory to look at but may help explain the lay of the land to make my references to their whereabouts less confusing.  
> Lugano: [here](http://01cheers.livejournal.com/5771.html)  
> Carona: [here](http://01cheers.livejournal.com/8023.html)  
> I have enabled anonymous comments in case you check them out and want to comment or ask a question without an LJ account. Commenting is entirely optional, though much appreciated. 
> 
> And here, btw, is the sublime Sesto: [here](%E2%80%9D1.bp.blogspot.com/_J3_liDBfbvs/TKXTIVPcsUI/AAAAAAAAywc/pHwJWw46nNI/s1600/Lamborghini+Sesto+Elemento+Concept+Supercar.jpg%E2%80%9D) and [here](%E2%80%9Dblogs-images.forbes.com/hannahelliott/files/2010/09/Lambo-Sesto-Elemento-side.jpg%E2%80%9D)
> 
> As a final note, the Grancia tunnel really is directly some 1,000 ft below Carona’s northern end. It would have taken a while, and a shitload of money, to build a lift even in an existing service shaft, but it could be done ;)


End file.
